


Blond Curls and Thwarted Peas

by sequins_stripes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Babysitting, Gen, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes and Experiments, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-16 01:18:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2250483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequins_stripes/pseuds/sequins_stripes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson feared that his best friend wouldn't accept his new daughter.  He needn't have worried but that doesn't mean that Sherlock Holmes makes for a proper babysitter.  Not much plot; mostly feelings from John's point of view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blond Curls and Thwarted Peas

**Author's Note:**

> And now for something completely different... Here's another vignette set in the post-Series Three universe dealing with Sherlock's human qualities when he's not being a case-solving robot. I couldn't bear picking a name for Baby Girl Watson that wouldn't end up canon so I avoided the issue. I hope it doesn't read too awkwardly because of it.
> 
> What a lovely community to have joined and thank you to the positive feedback on the first. All the same caveats apply -- apologies for errors of style, substance, or structure and I own nothing.

“What a wasted opportunity. She’s blonder than both of you. Of course, I haven’t the slightest idea what your natural hair colour is, Mary, so there’s a good probability John’s genes aren’t dominate for this particular trait. I’ve published a short blog post on the mathematical modeling possible in such a genetic event in case anyone ever becomes interested. And then hair just changes colour over time for some people…Still, Sherlock would have been a completely appropriate name. Surely more appropriate than it is for myself.” He ruffled his mop of decidedly-not-blond curls to accentuate the point. This elicited a giggle and a wild waving of hands from the very blond baby girl perched on her father’s lap in the chair opposite. Sherlock, ever the show-off, ruffled again.

John smiled broadly at the rapport between his daughter and his best friend. It was, frankly, a relief. Once the crisis surrounding the events of last Christmas had died down, Dr. Watson had room to breathe…and to worry about Sherlock’s reaction to the impending birth of their child. The self-proclaimed sociopath had handled the wedding surprisingly well. Oh sure, there was plenty he had cocked up but at the end of the day, when he slipped away quietly from the dance floor, Sherlock really had delivered a most perfect wedding befitting the army doctor and his assassin wife. But his relative comfort with the whole marriage thing had been due to Mary. Mary, who had known enough at that first hysterical meeting to tell him she liked him – _“I’ll talk him round.” “You will?” “Oh yeah.”_ Mary, who had first made him feel safe and wanted – _“You will be there, Sherlock?”_ Mary, who then revealed herself to be endlessly fascinating – God, only Sherlock would like a person better _after she’d shot him_.

However the deep bond between Mary and Sherlock, both because of and independent of their devotion to John, had not assuaged John of any of his worry about Sherlock’s response to the baby. Mary was special – Mary read people the way Sherlock read crime scenes. Mary herself found her husband’s concern absurd – the regular mocking of John on this very issue had been one of the first signs that the Watson marriage had thawed and had begun again to thrive. Still, there was no way an infant would know, could know, how to interact with the World’s Only Consulting Detective.

But then, of course, that’s exactly what she did. This perfect baby girl was every inch her mother’s daughter. At hospital, once the chaos of the labor was over – thankfully obsessive Sherlock had been as good a surrogate Lamaze partner as he had been wedding coordinator – John had held his breath as he watched Sherlock take a good look at his daughter for the first time. She was swaddled and laid out in a standard-issue plastic basinet as Mary took full advantage of the opportunity for a quick nap. Sherlock had hovered over, peering in at the tiny human with his usual mask of smugness and detachment. Only John was able to perceive the flash of apprehension in his eyes. He held very still, obviously committing every physical detail to memory and cataloging accordingly.

Then a miracle, of sorts. She stirred, faintly cooed, and a single hand broke free from the swaddling cloth in a small uncoordinated movement. Sherlock deduced the gesture as an offer of friendship. Moreover, he was resolute that the child was properly clever . In reality, there was nothing special about the action, just typical baby stuff. But who was John to argue? Sherlock was the genius, after all.

It had been a mistake to assume that Sherlock’s acceptance and affection for the baby had translated into any sort of competence in childcare. In fact, Sherlock was recently downgraded from solo visits, which was why John was presently sitting in his chair (permanently re-installed in its rightful place) in 221B while Mary was stocking the kitchen with home-made bread in an effort to coax him into eating more than his weekly portion of fish and chips. In retrospect, John knew it was as much his fault for missing the obvious – which made it easier to forgive Sherlock for his latest gaffe. If Sherlock had the time and inclination to offer to babysit, then Sherlock did not have a case. And if Sherlock did not have a case, then Sherlock would need to experiment to keep his mind from racing and lighting up a fag…

About a month ago, Sherlock had impressed the new parents with his extensive range in feeding, changing, playing and first aid, gleaned from his encyclopedic knowledge of anatomy, guidebook reading, and YouTube watching. Desperate for a afternoon alone with his wife, John had brushed aside any misgivings and comforted himself with the notion that Baker Street was always a short cab ride away.

Molly Hooper had been the one to text them. First Mary, who had missed the first beep of her phone in the heat of what her clean-shaven doctor was doing to her wrapped up in their cable-knit blanket. But when John’s phone sounded 30 seconds later, they both snapped to attention. “EVERYTHING UNDER CONTROL. THE BABY IS IN A TIMEOUT. PLEASE COME TO COLLECT FROM BARTS. – MH” “OH YOUR DAUGHTER IS HERE TOO. JUST LOVELY x” Mary had guffawed while John’s face had melted into that very specific grin of his right before he punched someone’s face.

When the disheveled couple had arrived at St. Bart’s, they found Dr. Hooper in the lab, jangling her keys at their daughter, cozy in a make-shift nest of white lab coats and a striped woolen sweater. Through one of the interior windows, Sherlock was visible, comically pacing back and forth in a hallway, sucking down a cigarette under a brightly lit red sign demanding NO SMOKING. “Everything’s fine. Nothing happened. We’ve been having a lovely afternoon!” Molly cooed at the baby, but really had intended to soothe the adults. A small Tupperware container of mashed peas had sat conspicuously on the lab desk among empty test tubes and petri dishes and a microscope not in use. Sherlock, noticing that some discussion was taking place but unable to hear Molly’s actual words, burst through the swinging doors to defend his actions that afternoon.

“That compound is perfectly safe! I’ve fed it to John on multiple occasions – more than once added to peas. I know she’s a baby, I recalculated the dose to account for her size and relatively undeveloped system. What? You think I’m a bad graduate chemist? I even brought her here to Barts to avoid any contamination from the flat’s kitchen. Perfect experimental conditions. Can you not conceive of how useful it will be to know how she reacts to drugging? Because surely that’s on the horizon – look at the lives of her parents!” Sherlock turned his ire on Molly. “And you, Dr. Hooper. You call yourself a scientist? Getting in the way of knowledge. “ Molly had said nothing in response, only rolling her eyes up in pity at the seething detective. Then, before the inevitable protest could arise, she had dumped the green mush in the rubbish bin. “BUT THAT’S A PERFECTLY GOOD SAMPLE WASTED!” The baby blew a raspberry. “Precisely” Sherlock hissed in agreement, as he stormed back out the doors.

No one heard from Sherlock for three days after that, although Mrs. Hudson had been privy to the sounds of his composing a sweet lullaby on his violin. On the fourth day, apparently he had licked his wounds long enough. John received a stream of texts. “BAKER STREET. ASAP. –S” “I KNOW YOU’RE NOT BUSY –S” “PLEASE?” “OK. IT WAS A BIT NOT GOOD.” John accepted the apology, knowing it was the best he could expect. And Sherlock knew the apology would be accepted, as he sent his next text. “BRING BABY. LESTRADE RAIDED FOR DRUGS LAST NIGHT. NOTHING OF INTEREST LEFT.”

So Sherlock had to wait for his full babysitting privileges to be reinstated at a later date. He’d never admit it but the current arrangement actually pleased him, basking in the attention of all three Watsons. Mary appeared from the kitchen, with sliced buttered brioche for tea. Sherlock hopped up from his chair, offering it to her. He snatched up his violin, settled in at his spot at the window, and began to play “Blond Lullaby No. 1.”


End file.
